We knew only that the older, cramped house where the couple had lived was further down in the forest, at the end of a gravel drive, and that this would have been the new house. Nothing but a foundation and a few posts – but their hopes had already moved there. The posts still smelled of new wood, as though the builder might return at any moment and begin where he had left off.

When the wife died the builder, who was also the husband, sold the property, the new house along with the old. It was a fine place to watch the stars, one of those places where the future seems to open out endlessly. Anyone going there would feel it, no matter their age or in what way their own hopes had been disappointed. I wonder sometimes what’s become of it. Thirty years ago all traces of the road to the new house had already disappeared, and sturdy young saplings had taken root all around. By now those saplings will have grown into mid-sized trees.